


Allowed

by tourdefierce



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, F/M, Face Slapping, Infidelity, Rough Sex, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:22:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tourdefierce/pseuds/tourdefierce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris Argent has always been drawn to strong women. However, he’d be a fool to think it’s just a habit or perhaps a strong preference. Yes, he has an affinity for strong women but he’s not making the decisions here. He’s not wanting. He’s not the alpha here. </p><p>He’s quite simply allowed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allowed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jsea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jsea/gifts), [Footloose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Footloose/gifts), [rufflefeather](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufflefeather/gifts), [kim47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/gifts), [Knowmefirst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knowmefirst/gifts), [hardticket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardticket/gifts), [dysonrules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dysonrules/gifts), [grangerbutstranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grangerbutstranger/gifts).



> I wrote this and then thought, “Nothing says thank you like inappropriate rare-pair porn”. So, thank you pinch-hitters for really stepping up and helping everyone out! You all wrote lovely fics and deserve all the love. If I had the time to write you each a fic, then I would. Instead, I wrote you this. i hope you enjoy it... if fucked up and slightly traumatic is your thing. 
> 
> Thank you to samsamtastic, agenttrojie and marguerite_26 for all the betas. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> (Also, in my world of depravity, Lydia is 16 because she has a late birthday... as does Scott. LALALALA.)

He doesn't know how it happens. Every explanation he tries seems false and brittle—weak when he tries to justify the truth. If there's one thing his life has taught him, it's that the truth doesn't need to be justified. It just is what it is. Sometimes it's ugly—always painful but never wavering—in a way that is comforting, often despite itself, because nothing is black and white in the world that Chris lives in. Except the Code. And the Code is based on things that are true and things that are untrue. There is no middle ground.

The truth?

She reminds him of his wife. She reminds him of Kate. She reminds him of his failures to both of them but also of their triumphs. She's stronger than him and smarter than him. The danger is in everything about her—the way she manipulates without thought, the way she loves, the way she burns up bright and takes them all with her because she's better than this. Just like Victoria and Kate. Just like his little girl.

The truth is, Chris doesn't know how it started but he knows he won't be able to stop her.

\---

Allison is upstairs. The music blaring from her room is a sign of her ever-shifting mood and tonight, it's female jazz singers at high decibels.

Which is fine by Chris.

"I let him fuck me," Lydia is saying, soft and curled into his ear as he pushes his fingers inside of her. "I let come inside of me after a few shitty thrusts like the pathetic little boy he is."

Chris snarls, curling his fingers and thrusting inside of her. She just smiles, hips rolling on the table with pleasure as she takes off her shirt and lets it hang on one of the dinning room chairs. He can't remember why she's here, skirt bunched up around her hips and dictating the tempo of his fingers fucking inside of her but she looks beautiful in the bright light of his wife's dining room, even if she is talking about Jackson.

"He can never last. Werewolf stamina is such a myth."

She's goading him and it's working because she isn't even breathing hard and Chris feels like he's already run a marathon. He hates the idea of Jackson, naïve and greedy _Jackson_ of all people putting his tainted, murdering hands all over her. But the rational voice inside his head reminds him that he's not so innocent either and plenty of blood has been shed on both sides.

It's not like Lydia needs protection. It's not like she isn't her own monster.

All he feels is the ugly twist of anger in the pit of his belly. It makes him hard and he hates her, for being her and kissing him, for taking advantage of the hole his wife has left and the way she makes him want to protect her, even when he knows she's out for blood. He hates the way he wants to never stop fucking her.

"Chris," she hisses, pulling his head up from the swell of his breast where he is doing his best to mark her pale, pale skin. "I think you should lick him out of me now."

Lydia attacks his mouth before he can protest. She bites his lips and fucks his mouth open with her tongue, while still managing to be delicate and dainty. Her lipstick smears over her lips and across his, making its way onto his tongue. It tastes like metal and chalk lines and then she pushes him away, staring straight into his eyes and says, "Eat him out of me, Chris."

"You're disgusting," he says but it sounds aroused and filthy to his own ears as he delves deeper inside of her and desperately wants to go back to sucking on her tits. She just laughs at him, shifting on his fingers, nails curling into his shoulders and her breasts bounce. They're perky and full, not well loved like his wife's used to be but unmarred with youth.

She's only sixteen.

She leans forward, one finger moving to flick at her nipple and the other reaches around to pull him closer by his ass until his cock, still in his jeans, is pressed up against the hand twisting inside of her.

"I bet I taste like him," Lydia whispers, dark and cruel. "I bet I taste like your wife would have if you'd have fucked her before she died. Come on, Chris. Get on your knees for me."

He sinks down between her smooth thighs and she laughs—she always laughs, head back and it's not manic or insane but beautiful and bright and truthful. He licks her out and she rides his face, bucking up into his tongue and fingers until she's moaning with pleasure.

"Oh god, Chris, yes," she says. And he can't help but watch her. The light from above plays on her skin as she arches and smothers him with her cunt. Her breasts heave with her heavy breathing, her red hair tickling his nose when she grinds her pelvic bone into his face, even now talking like she owns him—like she's doing him a favor.

"There’s a good boy, go on and eat him out of me. Lick up all his come. Fuck, oh yes," she goads, laughing again when his hand tightens on her thigh and she grinds against his face. It doesn’t seem to matter that she’s too wet to taste like anything but Chris’ mouth, smelling strongly of Lydia and no one else. 

He’s never tasted anything but the lingering, barely there, hint of latex and the hot wetness of her own arousal—tonight is no different. 

He fucks her roughly, just the way she likes it until she can't speak more than his name and buck into his mouth over and over again. She pulls his hair and grabs a handful of her own breast when she comes on a laugh and a moan. Chris doesn't back down, as if it makes a difference, making her ride out the aftershocks on three wide fingers and hard, unrelenting, sucks to her clit. She'll have awful beardburn later but Chris imagines that she likes it that way. Nothing is an accident to Lydia Martin. There is always a plan and there are always men to play them out for her.

She pulls him up and places his wet fingers all over her breasts, lets him fondle them with gun calloused hands and grind into her as she preens. She got what she came here for.

"Lydia," he starts to say but she hushes him with her finger and then her tongue.

She licks into his mouth, deliberately tasting herself as she rubs her still wet cunt over the bulge in his jeans.

"Mmmm," Lydia hums afterwards. "Tastes good, don't you think?"

The worst part is, she does. She tastes amazing, nothing like the latex he might have had on his tongue when he first lapped at her. Now she tastes like satisfaction and the bitterness of success, the rush of winning, right before everything is taken away and stripped bare because they cheated to get to the top. She tastes hot, maybe a little sweet but she burns all the way down his throat. 

He watches her touch up her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She kisses him tenderly, pulling her skirt back down and buttoning her blouse. He's still so hard for her and he desperately wants to ask her to stay, to let him take her to bed or hell, even let him fuck her here, laid out on the table he used to break bread with his family—with his wife. But she holds him close, kisses him bare and sweet as she grinds into his dick.

Then she disappears upstairs to talk to her friend, leaving Chris to stare at after her with a pair of wet panties in his hand.

\---

They're both angry tonight. Whatever carefully controlled emotions Lydia pretends to have are gone and replaced by burning anger and desperate need. The house is empty save for him, Allison having said she was going to Lydia's for a sleepover and Chris shudders to think where she is or what she's doing, because Lydia is here smacking him awake with the flat palm of her hand.

"Wake up," she snarls and Chris snaps out of sleep to grab at her hands and flip her down, pinning her to the mattress. It's instinctive and it's exactly what she wants from him. 

"What are you doing here?"

He's breathing heavily, cursing her, but she's fighting him, bucking and thrashing underneath his hold.

"What do you think, Mr. Argent?" she says but she smiles like broken glass around the words, her legs wrapping around his waist like a vice.

"I think you're a sad little girl," Chris says.

Lydia seems to think on that. "Why don't you fuck it out of me then."

"Lydia—" he almost wants to take it back but he can't now. Lydia means to take everything and to give nothing back. Not ever. She plays to win and for keeps, even if it's only skeleton bones on the table.

He's only in his boxers but she gets rid of them with extremely talented feet. She wiggles them down and then grinds against his naked dick. She's all dangerous smiles and there are moments when Chris is afraid of her—of what it would be like if she snapped, used all that ruthless intelligence and years of cut-throat dismissal to make him pay.

Her cotton dress goes too and she pushes his head down so that her breasts will be sore from his beard and her nipples tender from his teeth. He goes into the valley between them and sucks a mark there until she giggles, like the girl she should be, and moans quietly. It's a glimpse of what they might have been if they were different people. If Chris wasn't a forty year old murderer fucking a sixteen year old girl, wrapped up in magic and werewolves.

They're naked and grinding into each other, mouths panting as they kiss like savages. She pulls him close, always pulling him closer until she can suck on his tongue and he slips inside of her.

"Shit," he says, hips jerking back but when he goes to apologize she's frowning.

"Don't apologize for me," Lydia says, angry. "Don't back away from me."

"I need to get a condom."

"Shut up." They're kissing again. Or—Lydia is kissing him. She's prying his jaw open so wide it hurts and her nails trail down his scruff audibly. It hurts but Chris is still trying to keep up with what's going on.

He gets distracted by the way she's pushing his hands to cup her breasts, rough and demanding. They look amazing spilling over the tops of his hands and she moans prettily when he sucks on her nipples. He's so distracted that he doesn't notice the way her feet curl behind his thighs or the way she grinds against him until—

With a flick of her hips and one steady pull, he's seated inside of her in an instant. It's too fast and she gasps, high on triumph as he stretches her too much all at once. He's not massive or anything but she is tight, even if she is sopping wet with slickness that smells and tastes good enough to have Chris salivating.

He's frozen inside of her. His mind is tripping around the bare feeling of his cock inside of her and the clenched look of pain on her face that is masked almost entirely by her clear, overwhelming success.

She's won.

"Come on," she all but screams, frustration there. "Give to me."

But Chris refuses. He's stilled inside of her, desperately trying to convince himself to pull out. This is stupid. He's not wearing a condom and he has no idea—but that's the point isn't it? This isn't his show. She's in control. He snarls, trying to get himself together but it's no use.

She's already curling up, so that she can speak directly into his ear.

"Fuck me hard, like you mean it, old man. Fuck me like your wife liked it, hmm? I bet she loved it when you stuck your fat dick inside of her and made her come. Bring it the on, Chris, fuck me like I deserve to be fucked," Lydia says, sweetly. "Please, I'm asking you to. Fuck me like Kate would have expected you to. Make her proud."

He’s never told her about Kate but Lydia treats knowledge like a sickness and collects it like a super virus, ready to spread out like a disease and claim the weak or the willing. It’s just one more ghost she holds over her head, that prickles in the pit of his belly and makes him hate her just as much as he wants to fuck her until she never stops laughing.

Another taunt to get him to fuck her harder, bare like this, exactly how it happened the first time against the wall in his kitchen. She talked about Kate then too, until he fucked her frantic enough—her voice rabbit on to the pummel of his hips about how wrong he was, about how good it felt to be fucked by a man, about how he could get her pregnant if he tried hard enough—she said it even when she was coming on his dick, laughing at him. And afterwards, she reached over to pull his hand on her thigh underneath the table to feel the way he was leaking out of her, sticky and wet over coffee and dessert with Allison across the table. 

She's sick.

They're both so sick.

He doesn't move. He squeezes his eyes closed and wills himself to be disgusted enough to leave but he can't. God, he fucking can't. His cock twitches inside of her, eager to move and drive inside of her until she screams for him. Chris is weak but she's warm and wet around him—safe almost, if it wasn't a lie, if being between Lydia Martin's thighs wasn't probably the most dangerous place to seek haven.

Her nails rake down his neck.

"Please, daddy," she moans, squeezing her cunt around him. And he can’t help it, his hips jerk, even as his stomach clenches with rolling sickness. He hates it when she calls him that, the way she curls down to whisper it in his ear if he’s got his mouth on her or how she comes whimpering it—always harder when he’s someone else. It makes her feel so good and even as the guilt paralyzes him, he can’t help but start to grind inside of her. 

She’s so wet. 

"Daddy, I want it to hurt. Want you to make me wet with your come and I want you to use me. I want to taste like you, Dad. Please, Daddy. You will be so good, the best daddy in the world if you just let me have your cock."

It's a damn lie but it's one that Chris falls for every time. Willingly.

He flips her around, her body bouncing on the bed as she hits her knees. He doesn't waste any time slamming inside of her wet, open body. Lydia is already pushing up on her hands and knees, thrusting back and moaning with victory.

"That's it," she says, bright with laughter. "Give it to me, daddy. I want to feel you mean it."

Chris doesn't know what that means but it hardly matters. He fucks her with a purpose, pulling out and thrusting back in as he hauls her bodily back onto his cock. She's dripping wet around him but always tight, gripping at him as he pounds into her. She moans and laughs and greedily takes everything he's giving her and demands more.

"Fuck, _harder, Chris_ ," she all but screams and there is frustration there. He's failing her. He's not giving her what she needs.

He's disappointing her.

He can see the red splotch of the impact of his hips on her ass rise. It's an angry blush that comes up her thighs and over the curve of her ass, seemingly spreading every time he slams back into her and the soft, supple skin there ripples as if he struck it with his hand.

"I said harder."

"Goddammit, Lydia," he yells back but she just giggles, school-girlish.

"You can do better," she grits out, turning to look at him over her shoulder. "Your daughter gets fucked harder than this by a sixteen year old werewolf. Don't leave me wanting, Chris. Fuck. Me."

"Shut up," he says. "Shut your mouth about my daughter." 

She smiles, wide around the harsh pants of her breath. Chris can see the way her breasts swing with each of his thrusts and the sweat from his brow stings his eyes. He grips her harder, hoping to bruise but he knows it's just a false attempt at revenge or control—she won't bruise, not really, it just adds to the illusion.

He gets distracted by the dip of her waist and the way her hair clings to her neck and shoulders, damp from sweat.

Chris sinks into the rhythm, fucking her so hard that her body moves up his bed and he has to drag her back down onto his dick. It's familiar and oddly soothing to starve off his orgasm for as long as he can. She doesn't, of course. Lydia squirms and moves until he's fucking her where she wants and lets herself come twice.

He wants to follow her the second time, she's so amazing as she moans and pulsates around him. She's so fucking wet that he can't hardly believe it. Only she's crying out just as his pace becomes a little erratic and says, "Don't you dare."

"Lydia," he says, scraping his beard on her shoulders. "Lydia, come on."

"No. Just, once more. Please, just keep fucking me."

He can't deny her that.

Chris fucks her until he can't any longer—until he's afraid the sun will rise around them. He fucks her until he wants to cry because he's exhausted and he wants to come so badly but he waits. He drives into her until she's feral with pleasure, grinding her palm against her clit and claws her way to a third orgasm. He can feel her fingers there, touching his cock as he plunges into her over and over again.

"Give it to me," she says finally. She sound small but not sad. Just... content and small and happy. It's such a rush that Chris can't do anything but obey her. He spills inside of her on a groan, mostly silent after all this time but it rocks him to the core. He feels like he might die here, bare inside of her as he comes hard enough that he bites her like the animals he puts down.

His hips move still, perhaps out of habit, until the sound of him inside of her is loud enough to his ears that Chris flinches. He slips out. She's too wet from his come and he turns her over so that he can check to make sure she's okay. There's a little bleeding but it doesn't seem to serious and Chris wouldn't be surprised if her period has come. Although he'd be lying if he said there wasn't a thrill there—that he fucked her hard enough that she bled, that he actually gave her what she wanted. He fingers her carefully and she smiles at him.

"Stop touching me."

He does. He lies next to her so that they are barely touching and resist the urge to clean her up. She's still incredibly wet, leaking onto the sheets beneath her, and Chris shakes with the need to at least wipe her off, get the evidence of his come off her smooth skin and from inside her. Perhaps he's just needy though, to taste himself on her and find comfort where he knows she won't give any.

In the darkness, exhausted and sweaty, Chris wonders when the self-loathing comes. He wonders when he should be sorry for sleeping with this girl, for wanting to tie her up and fuck her well enough that she never goes to anyone else—to be good enough to her and for her so that she never seeks anyone else out. He wonders when it stops. When they get caught? When she gets bored? When she gets her fill?

They lie in a bed he's only ever shared with his wife.

"I messed up tonight," she says quietly. "Stiles almost died."

Chris absently hopes the boy is alright. Not only because he's relatively a good kid, werewolf sympathies aside, but also because he doesn't need the authorities in his business even more. It's a terrible thought but a necessary one. He's been around for a while.

"Chris."

He figures it's his turn. He presses back into the softness of her breasts against his back and takes her hand. He doesn't hold it. That's not real here. But he drags it so that her arm is wrapped around his body and her hand slots up against the base of his throat.

"My father's dead," he says.

Lydia huffs, not quiet laughing but certainly finding him redundant. "You're old," she says against his neck, teeth nipping here. "Your father has to die or you'll never be anything to anyone."

He wonders if she's thinking about Jackson or perhaps the Hale family. So many of them are left without parents now—Allison and Stiles both missing their mothers; Scott and Isaac without fathers. Beacon Hills appears to be the place to go when you need to bury your family.

"I'm not tired," Lydia says after several moments of silence.

"Okay."

He is but he lies awake and listens to her cry. Her body is shaking behind his, the clamminess of their sweaty skin makes them stick together as she trembles. Her sobbing is silent but her mouth is open as she bites the back of his neck and his shoulders.

He lets her. He doesn't say a word.

She squeezes her hand around his neck when she's done, trailing her fingers over his nipples and the flat softness of his stomach. She stops to play with the hair there, pulling at it until he hisses, but it doesn't matter. He's soft still, dick lying against his thigh but she'll coax him into hardness eventually.

The sun will eventually break through the windows and he'll let her do whatever she wants. They'll kiss, soft and tender and she'll tear him apart. She'll rub her soft, wet cunt and her sticky-slick thighs up against his back and his thighs until he's hard again. In the morning, she'll swallow him down and scrape his dick with her teeth until he hates her enough to pull on her hair and buck up to choke her.

Maybe she'll sit on his cock and ride him, demanding that he suck on her tits—calling him _daddy_ and guiding his fingers until they're sliding inside of her too, slick along his dick. Maybe she'll dip her fingers inside her aching, sore cunt and wipe it all over his face with a smart, smack of her palm. Maybe she'll feed herself into his mouth while his daughter sneaks back into the house.

Maybe she’ll finally claim him enough times to break him, her tongue chasing her declared intentions until he goes up in flames. Either way, he'll love it. He can’t stop it from happening because he isn’t capable, never mind not wanting to. He cannot stop her.


End file.
